trimmings.

trim.
trim.
TRIM.
there's something like 16 different
definitions on the books.
and a few other other ones, too.
more anatomical an' that-
(y'know, for the ol' "vertical checkbook")
i bought some trim yesterday.
what?
heck no, i didn't pay for sex!
c'mon.
the moulding kind.
not the kind of moulding that happens
under the leaves in my yard.
the royal treatment.
crown moulding.
trim.
and it trimmed my wallet down to size.
now it's looking trim to the point of gauntness,
like it's an anorexic doing aerobics.
tree-trimming is what's up, though.
or at least tree parts as trimming.
wood, in the woodsly goodness.
i've got a luxury liner head of a crucial cabin crapper.
and i've got a sinking feeling;
if i'm to stay afloat over here,
i'll need to trim my sails,
and adjust my ballast...
it will look dope, of course,
this barbarian bathroom of mine,
but my ducats and ingots are being diverted into
this one solitary tiny little space.
it's my own personal death star,
and i'm bankrupting the empire on it.
what's worse,
it's not even close to fully-operational.
ohhhhhh, man.
the upside to this economic downturn?
secret doors!
uh-huh.
three of 'em.
how flippin' dope is THAT?!
trap-, entry-, and hidden firearm-.
that's the trio of prefixes, ya'll.
under the floor,
out of the house,
and ready to spit hot fire.
so dope.
why the magic number when one would suffice?
because,
it's not building i believe in;
it's OVER-building.
i guess you could say that's my philosophy.
too much is the right amount.
***********
y'know how i know i'm getting old?
because i think young people look like a
fresh-baked batch of A*-holes.
more than just head-shaking at
the neo-neon pop punky goofiness,
what i really find myself wondering is:
who thought of this new pantsless trend?
someone with a ninja-pedophile fetish?
just leggings, dromedary digits, and fuzzy boots.
dumb.
and a little bit skanky.
especially if you have a sad butt...
ladies,
you've left the house without any pants on.
it's true.
are there buttons?
pockets?
a zipper?
seams?
well,
then those black stockings you're wearing
aren't pants now, are they?
the 80's aren't coming back.
at least not for about 70 more years.
so unless you're a mime,
or a gymnast,
or you've just gotten out of a dance recital,
i shouldn't have to see the silhouette of your uterus.
ever.
be honest, duders;
for every scandalously flavorful, firm set of legs,
there's her three stretched-out lycra/poly/rayon blended
brutal behemoth bovine buddies.
uh-uh, ninjas.
that's six plump-when-you-cook-'em hocks
for every two human-proportioned stalks.
hard styles.
i can't hang out.
be ugly, and be dope, for sure.
be ugly, and look stupid?
not so good.
plus,
even with stupid, furry, knee-high inuit slippers on,
i'll bet their barely-protected babymakers are COLD.
...you could get chapped lips.
oh, c'mon.
i mean it,
the wind chill alone dropped the temperature
almost 20 degrees yesterday.
you could freeze and embryo like that.
on the real,
it's not like you can wear a pair of quilted parka-panties
underneath those silky-smooth ho-ho-hose.
y'heard?
kinda changes the meaning of icebox, yeah?
sorry, scantily-covered heinies;
i like a revealing, absentee-fathered, attention-seeking,
been-raised-wrong outfit as much as anyone...
but a circus strongman leotard,
with a belt strapped over a sweater?
that just isn't it.
i'm not actually gay,
i just prefer my trim to be warm and made of wood;
never quiet, never soft.....